And for the First Time, I Didn't Run from the Pain — I Let It Comfort Me
On grief, a letter never sent, and the night my nervous system finally let me feel.
I cried myself to sleep last night.
The tears slipped silently from my eyes, gently down to my ears where rain sounds played softly through my headphones. They eventually landed on my collarbone, where they rejoined my skin, transmuting sorrow into something tender. Into love. Into quiet comfort.
There was no sob. No gasp. No shifting in the sheets. Just a slow leak of something I’ve long-held.
But first, let me tell you what was different last night than any other night before: this time, I noticed it. I breathed. I felt it. For the first time, my brain allowed me to feel sadness — to miss someone that I hold dear with every cell in my body — without shutting down. Without pushing it away. Without rushing to numb it.
That part of me — the part that misses him — has been buried deep. Hidden. Guarded like a sacred relic. Because to admit I still carry him? Would be to admit I am broken. That I can’t just “let go” the way everyone tells you to.
I do know how to cut an energetic cord. Hell, I’m great at it. But with him… I never really wanted to. Not fully. Sure, it’s been over five years. We haven’t spoken. But I know we’re still connected. It’s a knowing I’ve finally learned to trust.
Letting go of him would mean a final goodbye. The kind that leaves no door cracked, no light left on. I’m just over here dangling from one last thread like my life depends on it — when really, my toes are just centimeters from the ground.
I don’t want to let go.
The Letter
Last night, my thoughts drifted toward writing him a letter… to say what I feel needs to be said.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for abandoning you the way I always feared you’d abandon me. I’m sorry for saying yes to a “friendship” I knew would break me. I’m sorry for staying when I should have walked away the first time you said, “I may not be your Mr. Right, but can’t I be your Mr. Right Now?”
Because accepting that… it felt like betrayal. Not of you. Of me. I spent years wanting to prove that I was strong enough to love you and still survive not being enough for you. But all it proved was that I was willing to drown for the feeling of fire.
You were never the villain. We were both just… too human. You were my drug. And I was yours. We were both addicted. I still am. And that is my truth.
You challenged me. Lit up parts of my mind no one had ever touched. We talked for years — philosophy, religion, reality, the rise of AI before anyone else did. You were brilliant. And when I wasn’t consumed by my feelings, I liked the woman I became around you.
But forever was never meant to be. Obviously. And yet… my heart still aches to hear your voice. When life cracks me open, I still want to call you. I still want to know your thoughts, your reasoning, your spin on reality.
And when I imagine walking into a room and locking eyes with you, I can see myself fall to my knees — not out of weakness, but release. I’d scream from the part of me that’s held all this in, every unspoken word, every buried memory.
But then you’d know. You’d know how much you still live in me.
Through it all, I’m becoming the woman you used to imagine, only stronger. Wiser. Calmer. More me. Without the spiral. Without the pain. Someday, some lifetime, maybe we will be able to reconnect and reminisce about the delusional world where love was fire, grief was fuel, and passion was the only compass that made sense.
But for now… I’m saying goodbye. I love you. And I want only the best for you. Always. Please forgive me.
And Then the Storm Passed
A few years ago, I couldn’t have written that. My nervous system wouldn’t let me. It had guards up, armed and ready to intercept any emotion that wandered too close. I needed those guards for a long time. I needed protection from… myself.
But last night, my brain and body knew I could handle it. All of my mindset training, physical discipline, and spiritual practices were set up and ready for this exact moment. So the guards stepped aside. And I let myself feel.
I cried for him. For me. For what we had. For what never will be. I cried for staying. I cried for each memory. Each tear a message. A prayer. An apology.
And when the storm passed, I wiped my face, breathed deep, and let the rain sounds in my ears lull me to sleep. No spiral. No guilt. Just sleep.
And that, my friends, is progress.
That is proof that the work works.
Some of us carry unresolved love like a heartbeat… steady, quiet, always present. And even with the ache, we can still be healing. Still growing. Still gloriously human.
So tell me… who are you still holding onto?
A few years ago, all of my photos from the period of time with this person were deleted. I can only revisit them in my memory. That is also a big loss I am working through.
— AudraHealing out loud, so you don't have to heal in silence.
The ebook
Beyond the Misery
62 pages of real tools for PMDD, written from the floor by someone who clawed her way back.
Get the ebook — $33Stay close
Get the next one in your inbox.
I write when I have something worth saying. No templates, no fake urgency.